


The Inevitable (The Untrue)

by peachchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild





	1. Chapter 1

John has never given much thought to the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem to put much stock in romance.

After living with him for almost a year, it seems like a rather silly thing to spend energy considering. Sherlock is very clear on his feelings about sentiment and sexuality. He finds them both to be rather tedious and rather a waste of time, and sometimes, John agrees with him. After all, he spends a vast amount of time trying to woo women into being in a relationship with him, mostly because he wants to sleep with them, and for the most part, the sex doesn’t seem to be happening either way.

Not that he minds much. He hates to admit it, because it sounds a bit too much like Sherlock even for him, but he rather thinks being a part of Sherlock’s life – solving mysteries, chasing criminals, being something of a bodyguard and something else like an agent – is enough of a thrill for him. He barely misses sex when he’s not having it but absolutely would not give Sherlock that information if someone was holding a gun to his head – and that’s happened on a number of occasions, especially recently, so he’s quite sure of that fact.

The rivalry and mockery often seen in exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft isn’t something John finds surprising anymore. It’s comforting to know that on some level, these men, these geniuses, are surprisingly childish and petty at times, and snipe at each other regularly to prove it. But there’s something nasty, a snarl, a twist in Mycroft’s mouth and the lift of his nostrils, the way he all but spits “How would you know?” that makes John’s quills rise. He wants to throw himself in the way of it, protect Sherlock from it, or maybe just punch Mycroft in the face for it.

He probably would if some Secret Service men weren’t going to jump out of the woodwork and knock him to the ground before carrying him off to the Tower of London if he did.

It doesn’t help that Sherlock’s face goes blank the way it does when he doesn’t want to deal with something. It isn’t easy to hurt his feelings, but it also isn’t impossible, and John isn’t sure what nerve Mycroft just struck. They move on easily enough, and Sherlock seems to bounce back with the possibility of a puzzle at hand, and so John decides not to risk life in prison killing Mycroft for putting that look on Sherlock’s face.

(He’s not exactly sure where his protective streak comes from, and he’s not exactly sure why it manifests as a need to look after Sherlock, who is probably least in need of it, but he can’t expend the energy just now figuring it out.)

He manages not to ask why the topic of sex is a sore spot for Sherlock. He manages not to ask verbally anyway; he’s sure the question is written all over his face on their ride home. Sherlock ignores it, which is just fine, but it also leaves the back of John’s neck itching. He wonders if this is how it feels for Sherlock, to not know the answer to a question, to not solve the case in the end – like something’s crawling under his skin that he just can’t manage to scratch out.

Then they meet Irene, and Irene makes John’s skin crawl.

From the very first moment, John wants to make himself hard and round and wrap himself as a casing around Sherlock that can’t be breached. There has only been one situation in which Sherlock has ever looked as helpless as he does right now, and that was when John was standing beside a pool strapped into a Semtex vest.

Irene, with her hard hourglass curves and head-to-toe peaches-and-cream skin, mocks Sherlock. “Someone loves you.”

John considers telling her that yes, someone does, and he will look after him, but his throat closes before he can. He doesn’t know why. He supposes it’s because Sherlock has no use for sentiment, and John has no intention of becoming something Sherlock has reason to discard.

He hates that Irene recognizes it in him. He hates that he can see how desperately he needs Sherlock in his life, even if he has no desire for a sexual relationship with the man. But in a way, he feels as if he has a leg up on her. She thinks that his inexperience is for lack of trying. She’s wrong.

When she goes away, he relishes the fact that he gets to keep Sherlock – even if it’s a Sherlock smarting from some combination of rejection and humiliation at being beaten, by the most clever woman either of them has ever known, but one who was too stupid to recognize anything more in Sherlock than the fact that he was a virgin.

***

Sherlock spends one too many days staring at that phone sulking and pining, and John spends one too many days pretending he isn’t infuriated by it. His breaking point comes in the form of the cracked handle of his favorite mug, and then the splash of tea over his shoes when it gives way and shatters on the kitchen floor.

He stands staring at the mess for a long moment, the broken handle still gripped between his fingers, then sighs and stoops to collect the pieces and mop up the tea, binning it all with more force than strictly necessary. He startles when he finds Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen frowning at him, then scowls. “ _What_?”

A nonchalant shrug. “It’s unlike you to be clumsy,” Sherlock says slowly. “It’s generally an indication that you have something on your mind.”

John didn’t feel terribly interested in being deduced just now. “It’s nothing,” he cuts out.

“Most days I wouldn’t disagree with that.”

The line of John’s jaw goes hard, and a tick starts under his cheekbone.

“However, there’s been some unexplained tension in your shoulders for several weeks now. Why?”

“You’re the detective. You figure it out,” he murmurs, turning back toward the counter to refill the kettle and start it again.

“Ah.” Sherlock has moved closer. He leans against the edge of the table, blessedly clear of experiments for the time being. “You’re angry with me.” He folds his hands together, touches his index fingers to his lips. “I honestly don’t know what I could possibly have done. We’ve barely spoken in days. Unless that’s the problem? Are you feeling neglected?”

There aren’t many things more humiliating than being psychoanalyzed by Sherlock Holmes. It always gives one the sense that one’s feelings should have been dealt with neatly long ago so they no longer pose a problem to him.

“I’m not angry with you, Sherlock.” John doesn’t bother hiding the weariness in his voice. “It’s just been a long few days.”

“Ah, is the lack of cases bothering you as well?” He pushes himself off the table, the issue seemingly dismissed. “No matter. We’ll go out tonight. A bit of nightlife will do us both some good.”

John snorts and turns to look at him. “What possible use could you have for nightlife?”

“Absolutely none, but it’s always advisable to polish my skills by watching the populace at play.” Sherlock smiles at him, and it’s like he knows John’s forgiven him. “A bit of people-watching, as you call it.”

“‘People-deducing,’ you mean.”

“More accurate, definitely. We’ll go to that pub you like.”

“The Beehive?”

“Yes, you like their chips. You always suck on your fingers after you’ve finished them.”

John flushes, much like he always does at being scrutinized to that degree, and nods. “Alright.” It sounds surprisingly like a date. The thought draws up thoughts of Irene again, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Why was she so special?”

Sherlock goes still for a moment. He seems on the verge of giving an inane “Who?” in response, but instead settles on, “She wasn’t.”

“Sherlock, you carry her mobile in your pocket as a memento of her.”

He doesn’t speak.

John sighs. “I would like to understand.”

Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes are more transparent than they’ve ever been, like sharply-cut glass. “She was able to overcome me with something I do not understand or see the necessity of,” he says slowly, as if he’s picking through his words and setting them in place – like refrigerator magnets. “I’ve always deemed sex to be irrelevant, if not downright distasteful, and the things people do to partake in it are absurd.”

John snorts. He can’t exactly disagree. “Has she made you reconsider that viewpoint?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, then nods. “Yes. But not successfully. The more I consider the idea of utilizing knowledge of sex to my own ends, the less appealing I find it still.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I understand why I’m…” He falters, licks his lips.

“Why you’re what, Sherlock?” John’s tone is gentle, like he’s speaking to an easily-spooked horse. Sherlock rarely looks this fragile. In fact, he’s fairly certain he’s never seen this expression on his face before.

“I don’t understand why she found me to be an unworthy opponent because I’m – because I’ve never had intercourse.”

John is caught by that admission, and his embarrassment at that brings him to cast his gaze to the floor. He supposes, with Sherlock’s personality, and his feelings about the human race in general, that it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that he’s in his mid-thirties and a virgin. But still, he has to swallow before he can answer. “Because Irene is a fool.”

“Why do you say that?” There’s a smile in the detective’s voice.

John meets his eyes. “Because she was never clever enough to outwit you _without_ using sex. She had to make you fall in love with her to get anywhere with you.”

Sherlock makes a derisive noise, plants his hands on his hips. “Is that how I feel about her?”

“It certainly seems like it. You’ve been pining after her for weeks.”

“Oh, please stop using that _word_.”

“What I can’t seem to understand –”

“Many things, I’m sure.”

“– is how we’ve lived together for this long and I haven’t given two shits about your sexuality, or lack thereof, and yet you’ve never seemed to take notice of that.”

A pause. “I don’t understand.”

John smiles faintly. “Finally.”

The silence in the kitchen is palpable. John wonders if he could swim through it and away.

Sherlock moves first, runs his hand through his hair, his only gesture of discomfort. John’s heart drops into his feet. “You date constantly. You’ve had five girlfriends this year.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even pretend to commit to any of them. When they fade out of your life, you let them go without much thought.”

John winces. “That’s true.”

“Why do you pursue them?”

He shrugs. “Companionship isn’t high on your list of necessities. However, it is high on mine.”

Sherlock studies his face for a long moment, his own expression unreadable. He shifts his weight to his right foot after a moment, a clear indication that he intends to leave the room in a moment. He pauses though, looks at John again. “I’ve never considered companionship important,” he agrees, his voice quiet. “But now that I’ve had it, I find it essential. I couldn’t do without again.”

He goes out to the living room without another word, and John lets out the breath he was holding. When, five minutes later, Sherlock yells for him that they’re going to the pub, he smiles and grabs his jacket.


	2. Chapter 2

Most people describe Sherlock as charming, at least on some level. He’s not exactly handsome, but there is something rather fetching in his features, something that reveals the sharpness of his mind. John has always rather admired him, from an aesthetic standpoint, but he knows him well enough to know that most of the charm is put on.

Still, he finds himself terribly frustrated by the fact that Sherlock hasn’t changed any of his behaviors in the past several weeks. Other than the fact that Irene’s mobile has now joined the growing pile of mementos from cases on Sherlock’s desk, their relationship is exactly the same as it always has been.

John sits in his chair in the living room, his hands curled around a cup of tea, newspaper laid out on his knee. Sherlock is puttering about in the kitchen, goggles on and test tubes tinkling together. He’s been muttering to himself the past couple hours. He is evidently doing some experiment involving chemicals with long-winded names that John hasn’t known since he graduated university. He tends to avoid the kitchen on days like this. He has no intention of being a casualty of some insane explosion.

When Sherlock finally emerges, it's with a bright smile and red lines around his eyes from his goggles. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking very satisfied with himself. John finds his good mood instantly contagious, and he sets aside his newspaper. "A successful experiment then?"

Sherlock whips out a small black notebook, paces back and forth across the room while he jots notes in it, his goggles swinging from his wrist by their strap. "Oh, yes, information that will be quite useful in the future." He turns on his heel to look at John. His eyes spark, and John has never felt more adoration for him.

He doesn't bother asking about the experiment. Sherlock would just ramble and John would just be confused or bored. "How do you feel about dinner?" he asks instead.

Sherlock pauses and his face takes on a wary quality that one usually sees when offering stray dogs food. It isn't unusual to see when Sherlock is confronted with social situations; John thinks on some level that Sherlock's life must have been pretty lonely if he thinks that everybody who talks to him has an ulterior motive.

After a long moment, he finally says, "Dinner?"

"Yes." John smiles broadly. "You know. A meal two people share when they enjoy each other's company."

"That's what you've said a date is."

"That's what I'm suggesting, yes."

"Mmm." Sherlock perches on the arm of his own chair. "You go on dates with the hopes of the end result being sex."

"Yes. With women."

His head tilts to the side. His curiosity has been roused. John has just presented a scenario that Sherlock has never participated in before. "But that's not your goal with me."

"No."

Sherlock nods slowly, processing. "Yet you're nervous. Your palms are sweating. You keep wiping them on your trousers."

“What does that have to do with sex?”

“Isn’t your fear of rejection the cause of your nervousness?”

John huffs and tries not to allow his temper to flare. He wonders if Sherlock is being willfully obtuse or if he’s just stalling to avoid embarrassment on one side or the other. “Just because my goal isn’t to have sex with you, I can’t fear my advances will be rejected?”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock says, always one to answer a rhetorical question if it means having the last word. “Your advances are appreciated. If that helps.”

John peers up at him. He nods slowly. “Thank you. That does help.”

Sherlock almost smiles. From time to time, John finds these moments when the expression doesn’t quite make it onto his face his most sincere expressions of joy. It’s as if he’s nervous that if he shows it, someone will snatch it away, so he keeps it secret and safe. John thinks sometimes if he’s the only one who recognizes the emotion for what it is.

“What did you have in mind?”

John blinks. He’s caught off-guard by the question. “Oh. For dinner?”

“Yes. I assume you have something in mind besides a meal. We could do that here and with much less fuss.” He trails off at the end, as if his mind is already moving onto something else.

John acts quickly. “Bart’s.” Those sharp eyes turn on him again. “Bart’s,” he repeats. “After hours, in the education wing. Mike could get us access to one of the cadavers – not the ones Molly lets you use, but the ones they open up for educational autopsies.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, contemplating. “And we’d have full access to organs? Full autopsy?”

“Yes. Though he’d probably insist I be the one who performs it, since I actually have a medical degree.”

He snorts derisively at that but doesn’t comment. “Molly often lets me do external experiments on the corpses and from time to time lets me take organs or appendages home,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’ve never had complete access to a complete human specimen.”

John smiles at him. “So this would be a learning opportunity for you.”

“Certainly. An ideal one.” Sherlock nods. “A date would be rather… nice.”

“Good. I’ll arrange it.”

“Good.”

Sherlock snaps his goggles back into place and returns to the kitchen. John picks up his newspaper again.

***

“John, don’t be alarmed.”

John pauses in the process of combing his hair flat in the bathroom mirror. “Sherlock, that is absolutely not the right way to begin a conversation if you don’t want me to be alarmed.”

“It’s nothing life-threatening.”

“Not even in an indirect way? Did you put cyanide in the teapot again?”

“Believe it or not, John, I realize that when I take away your method of tea-making, I cut off my own supply as well.”

John sighs and steps out. He’s surprised to find his flatmate sprawled on the couch, right arm and leg dangling off the edge. His eyes are closed. “You don’t look particularly alarming.”

“Mmm.”

“So – what – your train of thought is alarming?”

“That was a very quick deduction, John. Well done.”

“We’ve talked about this. No condescension if you want me to stay in the room.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sits up suddenly, folds one leg, tucking his bare foot under the warmth of his thigh. “We have been on approximately seven dates now.”

“Approximately?”

“I’m never sure if I should count case outings, as enjoyable as they often are.” John cracks a smile.

Sherlock nods. “Counting case outings then. Seven dates.”

John sits on the end of the couch beside him. It’s true that they’ve been dating fairly regularly over the past few weeks – on an official level, at any rate. Most of the Yard would probably testify that they’ve been a couple since John moved in. On some level, they would probably be right. Still, it’s satisfying for John to have a label for things, to be conscious of their feelings for and position in the lives of one another. Overall, their lifestyle hasn’t changed, but John does appreciate the ease with which they now treat each other.

Sherlock takes John’s hand and, unsatisfied with simply holding it, rests it on his leg and traces the lines in his palm like he’s reading Braille. John leans into him. “Seven dates?” he prompts.

“Yes.” He doesn’t meet his eye. “While I don’t have a great deal of experience with dating, I’m aware there are certain protocols.”

“Protocols?”

“Please do stop repeating what I say, John,” Sherlock says patiently, and he lifts his head. “I’m referring, primarily, to kissing.”

John stares at him. “I – well – kissing?”

“Yes. You’re familiar with it, I presume?” Sherlock drawls.

“Yes. I just thought you -”

“- weren’t familiar with it?”

“- weren’t interested in it.”

“Ah.” He nods. “A misconception. I’m rather fond of it. It’s a kind of physical affection that doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual.”

“I see. So you would like it, if we kissed?”

“I realize that your perception of your sexuality makes the thought of physical intimacy with another man difficult to fathom.” Sherlock manages to say this without a hint of impatience or patronization. John appreciates that. “But then again, so does mine.” He hesitates. “I care for you, on a level that I haven’t for anyone else. I’d like to express that.”

“You do all the time.” Most people probably wouldn’t see it, but John knows that Sherlock’s very tolerance of him as a flatmate is a sign of that affection.

“Yes, in ways, but you’re… special.”

“So you want to kiss me to show me you care about me.”

“No. I want to kiss you because I care about you.”

The distinction is small, but it makes all the difference. John hums, closes his hand around Sherlock’s. It’s a bizarre thought – kissing Sherlock. John has become used to the way they now insinuate themselves into each other’s space: John squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder when he’s in the middle of speaking, just to hear him falter and look at him in that pleased, startled way he does; Sherlock first tucking himself up against John’s side on the couch, then sprawling across him with his head on his shoulder and his arm and leg draped over his lap.

That seems to John like a natural progression. They live under each other’s fingernails all the time; it’s the curse of a small flat shared by two men. But he's never thought of their relationship, while monogamous, as needing more physicality and affection than it already has. And he never expected Sherlock to want it either.

He squeezes his hand. "So kissing. But no sex?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I think we're agreed that neither of us has any sexual interest in the other."

"Yes."

"Just... romantic interest."

The word makes something flutter in the pit of John's stomach. There are certain times that Sherlock's succinct way of speaking forces John to recognize the deep love he has for him, the kind that neither speaks aloud. John wants to say it sometimes, but there seems to be an invisible line drawn at the word "love," as if to say it would create a crack that would bring the whole thing shattering down.

Still, the thought of kissing Sherlock - he can't really imagine it. He can't even imagine him kissing someone else. For a brief half-second, his brain wanders to the thought of him kissing Irene but short-circuits a bit at the image it conjures and he shudders it away.

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, his eyes scanning John’s face, and then he leans in to press their mouths together, catching him off-guard. It’s a nice kiss, overall, a slow one. Sherlock keeps his hand pressed to the center of John’s chest, his fingers curled slightly. Their lips part, their tongues press together, drawn-out slides, lazy and intimate, and it makes something similar to arousal curl in the pit of John’s stomach.

He pushes Sherlock away gently, with a hand against his neck, petting his throat lightly with his thumb. “That was…”

“Unexpectedly pleasant?” Sherlock suggests, pressing in close again to curl his arms around him and nuzzle in against his neck. For some reason, it doesn’t surprise John at all that Sherlock is this affectionate. It’s as if he’s just been waiting for someone worth pouring all of this attention into and must make up for lost time.

“Unexpectedly pleasant,” John agrees, and kisses his forehead.

***

Sherlock isn’t speaking to him, and he has no idea why.

It’s the first time since they’ve become official on any level that this has happened. (By Sherlock’s standards, “official” means it’s okay to pull John in close to him and press his face into his hair any time he likes – particularly if any Yarders are present to witness it.) But John supposes it could just be coincidence that Sherlock hasn’t gone into one of his dark moods before now, and nothing at all to do with him. Perhaps he’s giving himself too much credit.

So he decides to go about his days as patiently as he can. He ignores Sherlock’s silence, continues to make him tea and prompts him to eat, reads the paper and watches telly and tries to get his blog up-to-date with the increased number of cases they’ve had lately. Since he’s once again unemployed (Working with an ex-girlfriend was far too awkward, and Sherlock presses on him that he doesn’t really need to pay his portion of the rent, strictly speaking, which leads John to question why he was seeking a roommate to begin with.), he spends a great deal of time walking around the city and investigating all the local restaurants. He tries to read a novel or two but finds that he doesn’t quite have the attention span. He wonders, with slight amusement, if Sherlock’s urgent need to not be bored is contagious.

By the seventh day, he’s grown anxious. Sherlock barely looks in his direction, and hasn’t uttered a syllable in his presence (and maybe in general) in almost a week – not since the end of their last case together. John finds that more than a little infuriating, since John has been sporting a black eye and swollen lip for days; he was standing a bit too close to their suspect when he seemed to realize who they were, panicked, and lashed out with a fist and, comically, a vase from a table. John missed most of the scuffle, due to his rather timely unconsciousness, but when he came to, Lestrade was frowning over him, and Sherlock had run off to take care of something.

So in John’s mind, he has every right to be angry at Sherlock, not the other way around. His – lover? – boyfriend? – companion? – flatmate? – friend? – left him lying on a pavement bleeding for god knows what reason, and Sherlock isn’t speaking to him. No, by the weekend, John feels no patience or understanding for him at all. So one day, when Sherlock has sprawled out on the couch in a particularly loathsome manner, John sits on the coffee table and frowns at him.

Sherlock flicks a look up at him and then back to the ceiling, and utters the first word he’s said to him in a week: “Yes?”

“What the bloody hell is your problem?” John demands. He’s never been the one for delicacy. “I’ve been trying to be – I don’t know – not-homicidal, but this is ridiculous.”

“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean,” Sherlock drawls.

“What have I done? Hm? What have I done to so offend the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“Nothing. Except for the curry you made last week. That was dreadful.”

It was. And it is also beside the point. “Don’t try to distract me. What have I done, Sherlock? Why have you gone from wanting me to treating me like dirt?”

“I don’t think it’s all that bad.” Sherlock lets his head fall to the side so he can properly frown at him. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Sherlock. My – You are treating me as if I’ve committed some great offense that I absolutely cannot atone for. If you’re that intent on me not being in your life, fine, but at least tell me what I’ve done.”

Sherlock sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the couch so that his knees bump against John’s. The movement is so fluid that it seems to John to have happened all in one second, and he blinks at Sherlock when he takes his hands. “That’s the point, John. Don’t you see? You’re dear to me. You must know that by now. Not having you in my life is intolerable. Unacceptable.”

John’s eyebrows knit together, then smooth out. “And if I’m dead, I won’t be in your life.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead, he dips his head and rubs his thumbs across the backs of John’s hands. “That was Moriarty’s man, the one that attacked you. Not one of his best recruits, to be sure. Too easily spooked. I’m sure if I called Lestrade, he’d tell me that their suspect has… expired, unexpectedly.”

“So that he couldn’t give information on Moriarty?”

“No, probably not. He probably had no information to give. Moriarty probably found him embarrassing. He is evidence of his boss not always being right.”

“Alright. So what has this to do with me?”

Sherlock sighs. “Moriarty’s goal was not to send us on a chase after a man who murdered a random woman in the park. His goal was to hurt me by hurting you.”

John looks down at his hands. “And it worked.”

“Yes. It did. And I’ve decided something, in the past few days.” John holds his breath. “If Moriarty intends to come after me personally, then we should do the same. We should pursue him directly.”

John lets his shoulders curve in, a clear sign of his exhaustion. “So you’ve actually been thinking, all this time. You’ve not just been treating me poorly.”

“I have, on some level.” There’s something close to an apology in his voice. “It was something of an experiment. How well I would fare without you, if they were to take you from me.”

John swallows. “What have you found?”

“Well, I missed your tea from the start, and missed everything else about four hours later. And then I couldn’t be bothered to get up from the couch.”

“You take your role-play quite seriously, then.”

“Quite.” Sherlock’s lips quirk up at the corner. “It’s the only way to get accurate data.”

John squeezes his hands. “So, if we’re pursuing him directly, where are we going?”

“Give me three days. I’ll find out.”

John has no doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

They end up in Switzerland, but they certainly didn’t start there. There was a trip to Manchester, to Brighton, then off to southern France, a one-day dead-end lead to Berlin, and then suddenly – Switzerland. Meiringen is quiet. John isn’t particularly surprised by that; the town holds only about 5,000 citizens. And he isn’t particularly surprised that Moriarty has decided to hide here. It’s the last place anyone would look (unless that anyone is Sherlock Holmes).

They wander and snoop and spy and interrogate their way through town the first four days of their stay. John avoids sleep as much as possible, unwilling to let Sherlock run about putting himself in danger for no reason. And they’re both perfectly aware, though neither says it aloud, that by now, Moriarty must know they’re there. Every second, particularly if they leave their room, they have to be cautious.

John tries to call this to the forefront of his mind whenever he starts to feel rundown. He has no time for weariness. He has no safe space to depend on for rest.

Sherlock puts his foot down when John utterly fails to be aware that Sherlock is talking for a full five minutes. (With Sherlock’s history in that regard, John’s distantly surprised he noticed.) He directs him toward the (as yet unused) bed. “You have to sleep, John. You’re not going to be any help to me if you collapse.”

John snorts but allows himself to be sat on the edge of the bed, allows his shoes to be removed from his feet. “I’m alright, Sherlock. I just need to sit down for a few minutes. I want to help you.”

“And you will. You have.” Sherlock cups his face, draws him in to press their mouths together. “You’ve been – Well, you’ve been you. But you aren’t useful to me if you don’t take care of yourself.” He guides him to lie down, draws the blankets up over him. “I’ll call to have some porridge sent up to you come morning.”

“Are you going out?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. I’ll wake you when I leave.”

“Alright.” John’s eyes droop, the pressure of his pillow too firm, too enticing for him to remain awake. “You’ll text if you need me.”

“You won’t hear it, because you’ll be _asleep_ , but yes. I will.” Sherlock kisses his hair, squeezes his wrist with strong fingers.

John barely hears. He’s already dropped off, plunging into a darkness where Moriarty can’t find him.

***

He wakes to an empty room and almost laughs at the fact. He should have known that Sherlock was going to lie to him about telling him he was leaving. Part of him commends his detective for the decision, since he doubts he would have been able to return to sleep, knowing that he was heading out into the night alone.

He pushes himself out of bed. It’s just before dawn, if the color over the eastern horizon is anything to go by. There’s a grey-blue color blooming in the sky there, and he stretches his arms above his head, wondering if room service is available yet. He munches on a biscuit and sets the kettle boiling, wanders around the room looking for his mobile so he can text Sherlock for his location.

He finds the note first. It’s folded primly in half, and has his name scrawled across the outside fold. He knows Sherlock’s handwriting, but he can’t imagine any reason that he would leave him a note instead of sending him a text. It makes the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, and he flattens it on the table to read it.

He snatches his mobile from the table and runs from the room.

***

_John,_

_I’m sorry I lied to you. I know you realize by now that I have. I’m not sure if you’ll be angry or amused. I hope the latter. You were so tired. I’m sorry I’ve put you through so much since we’ve met. Your life might be very pleasant and normal if you hadn’t met me._

_You aren’t an idiot, so I assume you’ve recognized this by now for what it is. I am saying goodbye. I don’t expect to come back. In fact, by the time you read this, I imagine it will already be over. However, if it is over for me, I fully intend for it also to be over for Moriarty. I always knew that we could play this game eternally if we chose to. I also know that with every victory for us, I put you in danger. That is unacceptable to me, as I hope you realize._

_It is well worth my life to protect yours._

_So I would like to say, with the utmost sincerity, and all my love, that you have been a very pleasant addition to my life. Thank you._

_I hope you understand that I am very sincerely yours,  
Sherlock Holmes_

***

John spends the day doing everything he can to track down his detective. Unfortunately, Sherlock took his deductive skills with him, wherever he’s gone, so he has to do things the old-fashioned way: he asks questions.

He becomes acquainted with some of the regular patrons of the local pub, and shows photos around in the small café on the corner of near their hotel. No one has any definite information. Everyone has seen him; Sherlock is impossible to ignore. But not a single person can tell him where he might be.

His luck changes abruptly when a young man parks his bicycle right in his walking path. He’s gangly, ginger, with freckles across his nose and upper lip. He smiles at him. “You’re looking for your friend, yes?” He speaks English with a thick French accent.

John nods slowly. “Yes. You’ve seen him?”

“This morning. Before dawn. I was delivering milk.” He gestures to the truck behind him that he’s abandoned in favor of his bicycle.

John’s ears perk up. This is new information. “You saw him recently? Where was he going? Which direction?”

The boy points up toward the mountains beyond town. “He stopped to speak to me. He told me that if someone asked, to tell him ‘Reichenbach Falls.’”

“Sorry?”

“The waterfall.”

And John understands, suddenly. _The waterfall_. Only a man as dramatic as Sherlock would choose such a way to die. The breath John draws in is shaky. “Right. Thank you.”

He nods, kicks his stand up on his bike, and peddles away.

***

The police department are as cooperative as they can be. John has never been particularly good at French, and that’s the native language of most of the officers, it seems. He wishes, more desperately than ever before, that Sherlock was here. He’s never felt so helpless without him. He always imagined that, on some level, he could hold his own if he needed to. He needs to now, and he fumbles.

They find an interpreter somewhere, and John explains as much as he can of the story to two officers. They’re skeptical of him until he urges him to pull up Sherlock’s name online; his website and the various news articles written about his detective seem to offer him some credence. Ringing up Mycroft certainly helps as well, though John notices none of them tell him the situation. He wonders if, on some level, Mycroft has influence in every country.

“So what can we do to help you?” The interpreter says, turning to look at him, eyes wary.

John folds his hands together against his leg. “To be frank, I don’t think he can be helped anymore.” His voice does not crack. This surprises him. He’s not generally an emotional or sentimental person (It’s a quality Sherlock admired.), and now he isn’t as certain as he would like what the proper protocol is for what he should feel. He decides that the safest course is to feel nothing. “I would like assistance in retrieving his body. I understand the task is daunting, but I would very much like to lay him to rest in London.”

The interpreter is quiet for a long moment, then turns to speak to his coworkers in French. When the head of police nods once, curtly, John feels the weariness sag his shoulders down, like he no longer has this task to carry. “Thank you. Merci.”

***

They don’t find the bodies. John figures Sherlock’s last act of contrariness was avoiding a proper burial, and the thought almost makes him smile. It helps, slightly, when he has to leave Switzerland.

He keeps the note. It feels heavy in his jacket pocket, that word _love_.


	4. Chapter 4

John is seated at the front of the church. He’s probably not quite as surprised by this as he should be. Sherlock has - _had_ \- a small immediate family, consisting of just his mother (who is too frail to travel, particularly to the funeral of her youngest son) and Mycroft and, while his extended family is, well, extensive, he has had no close relations with them, none that would make them better choices.

He sits in the first pew, between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson clutches a handkerchief and cries quietly into it. John expected her to be hysterical; he expected her to cause a scene so that he could escape this by needing to escort her out. But she is quietly composed, a woman used to grief, and preferring the dignity of it.

During the service, a memorial more than a funeral, Mycroft touches John’s knee three times. He doesn’t mind as much as he thinks Sherlock might. Perhaps it’s because Sherlock’s no longer available. Perhaps Mycroft’s reaching for his brother as much as John is. Either way, the elder Holmes is composed and eloquent when he gives the eulogy. (John was asked. It just wasn’t in him.)

There’s an empty mahogany coffin at the front of the church that probably isn’t fooling anyone. Among the small group of people Sherlock would have tolerated at his funeral, most have heard the story of his death. They know there’s no body as well as John does. He finds it comforting to have something to look at though. Listening to the reverend talk about a man that he didn’t know at all would be difficult without the grounding presence of a coffin Sherlock would have found respectable and not impossible to sleep forever in.

There has been a sour taste in his mouth since he came home, and no matter how often he cleans his teeth, and no matter how much tea he drinks or toast he eats (because he can stomach little else, right now), he can’t erase it. He’s angry at Sherlock, and he feels it’s completely justified.

On some level, both of them knew they weren’t going to grow old together. They knew that one day, it was going to come to this. One of them, or both of them, was going to die like this. They were too lucky too often to expect that they could get through every encounter and every murderer and always come out unscathed.

John always thought he would be the one to succumb. He always thought that was the fair thing to have happen. The world is not going to miss an invalided army doctor who chased a madman around the city for no reason other than that it made his blood pump in his ears and who sometimes wrote the stories of his mad detective in a blog.

He is not the great man that Sherlock Holmes was. He does not deserve the sacrifice that Sherlock made on his behalf. He is angrier at his detective than he ever has been, because this was one decision he should not have been allowed to make without him. He could have done it. He could have chased Moriarty to the Falls. He could have tackled him off the cliff and into the water. He could have faced his death like that; he’s done it before.

Sherlock would have moved on. Perhaps he would have mourned. Perhaps he would have kept his skull on the mantel to talk to from time to time. But eventually, Sherlock would have understood that when a person dies, they go nowhere. They exist no longer. He would not have dwelled on it when there was work to be done.

John could gladly have died if it meant Sherlock could continue to do his work.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was several inches taller than Moriarty, but that didn’t mean the little man wasn’t scrappy. In fact, as soon as he set foot on the path above the Falls, Moriarty was there and ready to confront him. There was more rage in his face than he remembered finding last time they met. In fact, last time, Moriarty still saw their interactions as a game, something amusing to spend money and time on when he was bored. But now, there was sheer loathing in those eyes. Sherlock wondered vaguely if he himself had become boring. He wondered if his success in finding him, in tracking him down, in thwarting him wherever he could, had become tedious.

Sherlock approached slowly. “Well, here we are.”

Moriarty pressed his lips together. “Quite. I didn’t imagine you’d come.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he would have made that assumption. The hotel concierge had slipped a note into his hand early one morning with a time and a place and a warning that if he didn’t come, didn’t follow instructions to the utmost, “your pet might disappear.” If there was anything one could count on from Sherlock, it was that John was not something he was willing to risk. “You’re not as clever as you think you are, then.”

Moriarty’s eyes flashed. Just like that, he was at him, pressing him up against the cliff face, connecting a harsh punch to the crown of his cheekbone. Sherlock saw it coming and allowed it. His position now allowed him to push back: knee to groin, fist to stomach, elbow to the back of his head as he folded further and further into himself, protecting himself. Sherlock drove him back toward the edge of the path. He pushed him with all the force he could gather, and Moriarty fell. His eyes were wide. It might have been the first expression of genuine surprise Sherlock ever saw on his face.

He stood there for a long time, his coat whipping around his legs. The wind was cold, cut across his cheeks, and the sting of the one solid hit Moriarty landed on him faded slowly to numbness. His brain was already clicking into gear, and he stared down at the water. Moriarty was dead. If the sheer impact of falling from that height hadn’t killed him, the jagged rocks at the bottom of the fall surely did.

He thought about the note he left for John – genuine, if now erroneous – and the fact that he had probably already read it. He thought about going back down into town and greeting him, just to see that look on his face, like he simultaneously wanted to murder him and kiss every part of him to make sure he was really there.

And of course, he thought about Moriarty’s network. He thought about the dozens, if not hundreds, of people he had beneath him, carrying out his work so that he didn’t have to get his hands dirty. He thought about the projects he had going that took little intervention from him, and the fact that they could probably continue operating for a long while without Moriarty to direct them.

And then he thought about the fact that a group of dangerous men and women with a sense of morality lax enough for them to feel no qualms about following the orders of Jim Moriarty. He thought about how easy it would be for another man as brilliant as Moriarty to come along, to step into the fray and take over, and how easy it would be for this network to accept their new leader and the orders he gave.

Sherlock made a decision more than a deduction. For him to be completely victorious, the all-around winner of this game, he had to take out all of the pieces, not just the king. It would probably take a long time, and it was probably going to be a worldwide venture. It was not impossible, but it would certainly be challenging.

One thing he knew for sure was that John would not be involved. The only way he could protect him now was to keep him ignorant. His stubborn, wonderful doctor would not be willing to let Sherlock take on this venture without him, especially when he was sure Sherlock couldn’t even hold a gun properly. So dead Sherlock would be for a while – just a while, just long enough to finish his business with Moriarty completely. Then he could return to John and their life in London.

He fished his phone from his pocket and shot off a text to Mycroft: _I’m going to be dead for a while. Please make arrangements for my share of the rent and look after John._

The response was immediate, and in many ways both like and unlike he expected from his brother: _Requests noted. Good luck._

As infuriating as his brother could be, as often as they were at odds about their lifestyles and the way they used their gifts and their time, Sherlock was certain he would do as he asked, if only because he had a certain stake in Moriarty’s demise as well.

Now that that was taken care of, he made his way back down from the Falls, and turned straight in the direction of the train station. The first thing he needed to do was get out of town. He won’t be able to help or protect John if he couldn’t get away from him first.

Mycroft texted him four days later to tell him that John had demanded the waters be searched for his body. Sherlock smiled slightly, satisfied, and tucked his phone back into his jacket. His wonderful doctor.


	6. Chapter 6

The anniversary of Sherlock’s death passes without much notice. John figured he would have been to the cemetery that day, then have a few pints at the pub and marinate in his self-pity. But somehow, he forgot. He’s missed it.

He only realizes it when he runs into Lestrade. It’s a pretty great achievement to run into someone in a city as large as London. But he has always been pretty adept at it; if he hadn’t run into Mike Stamford, he wouldn’t even have met Sherlock.

They’re in Tesco at the same time, which is always the most awkward place to see someone, especially someone he’s not sure he really wants to speak with anyway. After their forced interaction, they’re going to have to continue shopping knowing they’re in each other’s vicinity. He doesn’t voice any of this to Lestrade though, who looks almost as uncomfortable as John himself feels.

He squeezes John’s shoulder, which is just slightly too familiar a gesture from the DI. The closest they’ve ever come to being friends is sharing a role as Sherlock’s keeper. “How’ve you been, mate?”

John glances at Lestrade’s cart. Ready-made meals. Beer. Crisps. A frozen bag of chips. He’s clearly a man not used to being single yet. The thought makes him smile; he wonders if Sherlock would have approved of his deduction.

“I’m hanging in there. You?”

“Not bad. Not as busy as I used to be. London’s been quiet lately.” Lestrade smiles carefully. “Hanging in there, are you?”

“Yeah. As well as I can.”

“I can’t believe it’s been more than a year.”

John stares at him, suddenly dazed. “Has it?” he says faintly.

“Yeah, happened in May, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did,” he murmurs.

Lestrade shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, like he’s wanted to say it for a long time but never knew how, never had the opportunity. “Listen – I was thinking about watching the rugby match tonight at the pub. Do you want to join me?”

John smiles faintly. Neither of them wants to extend this exchange, so he shakes his head. “No. But thank you. I think I’m going to have a night in.”

Lestrade nods. “Alright. Well, ring me if you need anything.”

“Sure.” John knows that he won’t.

***

John very deeply considers getting very drunk that night. What kind of person forgets the death date of the love of his life? _I must have deleted it_ , he thinks wryly as he puts away his groceries. _Sherlock would have approved_.

It’s nearing six, and Mrs. Hudson will be up any minute with his dinner. He never asks her to bring it. He wouldn’t dare be that presumptuous, but he so often forgets to eat these days. He wonders vaguely if he’s suicidal, letting himself just waste away instead of actively taking his own life. He wonders if Mrs. Hudson wonders the same thing, and that’s why she sits at his kitchen table watching him eat and talking with him every evening, to make sure he actually eats the meals she brings him.

He doesn’t protest the meals as much as he should. At the very least, she’s good company, someone to chat to when he has no one else, and has had no one else for more than a year. Mycroft bought him a dog three months ago – a fat, English bulldog named Gladstone. Knowing Mycroft, he’s probably purebred, and probably cost a thousand pounds. John is grateful for the company; he’s a sweet dog, who likes to lie with his head on John’s feet when John is feeling particularly aimless and lost.

But human interaction – it’s something he doesn’t miss until he has it again. Sherlock wasn’t always the best company, with his moods and his tendencies toward silent brooding, but he was a constant. They spent almost every moment together. They shared a bed, and a kitchen table, and a couch, and cabs, and sometimes clothes. (John remembers several too soft, too close moments when Sherlock wrapped himself up in one of John’s jumpers when he was cold. He can’t spend too much time thinking about those things; his muscles and organs would atrophy with his despair.) His loneliness is so complete at times that he feels as if he’s living in a tiny bubble that just won’t pop, just continues to float up and up and further from anyone that might rescue him from it.

There’s a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson lets herself in. From the smell of it, she’s made a whole Sunday roast. John will probably eat every bite of it.

***

Sex is surprisingly easy to come by.

He’s a little surprised by it, to be honest. He’s never been much of a ladies’ man. Women find him small and sweet, easy to laugh with, but not usually someone to take home. At least, that’s how it always was before. He wonders what he carries in his shoulders now that makes women want to bed him. He supposes it’s not something he should examine too closely; it’s probably vulnerability or bitterness or sheer loneliness, something that he would loathe if he knew well enough that it was there.

On several occasions, he’s stayed for breakfast in some woman’s flat, fed eggs and sausage and toast and tea, feeling like a son coddled by his mother. At this point, he always offers some tottering explanation about how sorry he is, but he isn’t looking for anything serious, and the woman always puts her hand on his shoulder and says, “I know, dear.” John begins to wonder if the damage is so obvious, so full and visible, that women are trying to repair him in parts, but have no interest in taking on the whole reconstruction project.

He begins to see his therapist again, intermittently. It’s not something he wants to make a habit of, and she doesn’t seem to expect him more than every couple of months. When he first sits down with her, that first time after Sherlock died, she asks, very gently, how his leg feels.

Even he is surprised that his limp hasn’t returned.

***

He goes back to work. It’s not the same surgery, though Sarah called to offer him his position back, when she heard about Sherlock’s death. (He declined. He can’t move backwards. Life doesn’t work that way.) It’s not a surgery at all, in fact. He decided there was no better place for him than in A&E. It’s quick-paced, it’s harsh. Sometimes he leaves with his wrists stained pink with blood that splattered or dripped from his gloves. He doesn’t know if he feels better, looser in the chest, because he’s doing something again, or if it’s just because it’s been two years, and he knew that eventually it would all stop hurting so much.

He thinks Sherlock would approve of him working in A&E. He would have found it suitable for a former army doctor. He would have liked the straight-shouldered, head-high walk that John adopted walking through the department’s halls, knowing that he’s there to save lives.

It helps John sometimes, to know that he’s here, possibly patching up someone as reckless and good-to-the-bone as Sherlock was (even when he pretended he wasn’t), someone who was running about trying to help people in some ridiculous way. He doesn’t think too hard about it, or he would crumble every time he lost someone, which happens more often than he imagined it could. He didn’t think he would ever see so many people die as he did in Afghanistan. But even civilians die violent deaths. Everybody dies, Moriarty said. He had to be right about something, John supposes.

(Every once in a while, he feels a great deal of satisfaction knowing Moriarty was wrong about Sherlock catching him. Moriarty must be positively seething in hell about losing the game.)

The nurses like John, and so do most of the doctors, though some say he’s a bit standoffish for their tastes. John forgives them for it though; he _is_ a bit standoffish, after all. He doesn’t much care for pretending that anyone matters now that Sherlock’s gone. No one does. He’s glad he’s able to admit that to himself. It wouldn’t make him any less lonely to pretend otherwise.

One some days, though, pronouncing time of death for people hit by cars, or stabbed in alleyways, or beaten to death by spouses, is too much. He likes the job. He likes helping people where he can. But none of these people have put themselves in a position where they’re _asking_ for it. Not one of them can choose to die violently. None of them have probably ever thought about the possibility.

Some days, he goes home and thinks about not waking up again. The idea doesn’t sound that bad.

***

Mycroft has a stern sort of face, the kind of face that would look good on a serious English father. John supposes it suits him in a way, the fact that he seems so utterly paternal. It makes Sherlock’s behavior toward him seem less like petty sibling rivalry, and more like a desperate need for attention from the one person who seemed to want to take care of him.

If Sherlock was still around, John may have experimented with that a bit.

But just now, Mycroft’s stern face is making John impatient, and the edges of his nerves feel frayed, sandpapered-down. “It’s not the most ridiculous request anyone’s made of you, surely,” he points out. “You were related to Sherlock, after all. He asked you for ridiculous things all the time.”

Mycroft sighs in that put-upon way he has, and John wonders if the weight of both running Europe and grieving Sherlock is feeling heavy on his shoulders these days. Even his office looks darker, smaller, than John remembers it. He wonders if everything that Sherlock has touched has that taint for him now. Baker Street certainly does. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, John,” he says carefully. “You were invalided home for a reason. You’re not fit to be in the field.”

“I’m not asking to be,” John leans his elbows on his knees, presses his fingertips to his mouth. “I just – I need to be _somewhere_. I need to be useful to somebody. Army hospitals are usually on base, and I’m a good doctor, Mycroft, you know that. I know you checked me out completely when I moved in. You have to know that I’m _good_.”

“You are,” Mycroft concedes. “You would be valuable to any team.”

“So what’s the problem?”

He hesitates, taps his fingers against the armrest of his chair, his foot twitching slightly. “Sherlock would hate it, if he were here,” he says quietly, in response.

John sets his jaw. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Sherlock was here.” He knows Mycroft’s right. Sherlock _would_ hate it. He would hate to be left behind for something so _dull_ , so boring as wanting to make a difference. John scrubs his hands over his face. “But that’s not the case. Sherlock’s gone. He’s been gone for almost three years. I have to do something, Mycroft, or I’m going to rot here.”

The elder Holmes purses his lips carefully, then nods slowly. “I will consider it. I’m not going to make you any promises though, John.”

John smiles broadly, pushes himself to his feet. “I’m not asking for any. Thank you, Mycroft.”


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft has kept Sherlock up to date on John as much as he possibly could. And, for Mycroft, “as much as he possibly could,” has been rather a lot. But Sherlock knows that Mycroft has a tendency to coddle. He knows that if John was doing poorly, Mycroft would probably lie to him about it, at least on some small level.

He knows that Mycroft would try to spare him pain. Sherlock’s never much understood that. He’s gone out of his way to make Mycroft’s life, if not painful, as annoying as possible, and has succeeded on more than one level. Someday, when he has more time, he’ll look into those matters, the lack of reciprocation from his brother.

Today, though, that is irrelevant. Today, he is stepping off a plane and into England for the first time in three years. (Not quite three years, really, he notes to himself. It’s been two years and 342 days. He doubts anyone will care much about the distinction.)

Today, he will see John again for the first time.

Customs at Heathrow is always grueling, but he tries to be patient, or at least to exude it. His passport is a fake, but so is most of the rest of him. It’s all a costume. His hair hasn’t been this short since he was eighteen, just starting university, where he found that his face was too distinctive, drew too much attention to him, and so began to hide behind a mop of hair.

He finds he rather likes it now. A vain part of him thinks John will approve of the change. An egotistical, slightly more honest part of him thinks – well, knows – that John won’t give much of a damn about his hair when he returns.

London is still London, he finds, when he steps out of his cab in Westminster. It’s early evening, and the bustle of commuters and tourists soothes him. It rights something in his chest that has been tipped on its side for a long time. If he didn’t keep such careful track, he wouldn’t believe that it’s been three years since he’s stepped foot in London, three years since he’s even been in the same _country_ with his beloved city.

He breathes the London air and feels light. He’s only a short cab ride from Baker Street, from home, from John. But he has some things he has to do first, things to take care of. He stands on the corner, looking across the Thames at the Parliament Tower, his hands in his pockets, and waits.

Three minutes pass, and a black car pulls up to the curb. He slides into the back seat.

***

Mycroft looks older, and the thought makes something sharp stab at Sherlock’s side. His brother smiles, though, when he sees him. “Ah, Sherlock,” he says by way of greeting, extending his hand to signify that he should take a seat in front of his desk. He sits himself in a leather chair behind it. “You’re actually starting to look your age.”

Sherlock runs a self-conscious hand over his hair. He doesn’t sit. “How’s John?” Mycroft is quiet. “You haven’t told me anything in months. I want to know how he is before I go to him.”

Mycroft folds his hands on his desk. “John is highly engaged with his work,” he says slowly. “Not unlike a certain brother of mine once was.” His smile tightens. “Were you able to accomplish your tasks?”

Sherlock nods once. “I’ve obliterated the spider web.” He strolls to the window, pushes aside the curtain to look down on the street. “Moriarty won’t be any more trouble. What do you mean ‘engaged with his work’?”

“I told you last year that he took a job with St. Bartholomew’s, as an A&E doctor.” Mycroft picks up a fountain pen, scrawls his signature across a document on his desk. “He rather enjoys it, I think. In fact, he asked me to reinstate him in the Army.”

Sherlock lets the curtain swing back into place. “Why?”

“A sense of purpose, I suppose,” Mycroft says resignedly. “He no longer has anything holding him in London.”

“He has me,” Sherlock’s voice is sharp.

“But he _doesn’t_ , Sherlock.” His brother looks up at him, patient. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead for years. He’s mourned you. Now he must move on.” He pauses. “Do you intend to go to him tonight?”

“No. Tomorrow.”

“A wise decision. He has been on-call for thirty-six hours at the hospital, these past few days. Long shifts, I think, to prepare him for the grueling work of an army hospital.”

Sherlock makes a small, hurt sound. “You’re not actually going to grant his request.”

“I considered it. I had no idea how long you would be absent; you refused to give me any indication -”

“I was _working_ , Mycroft.”

“- and if he needed something to settle or occupy him in your absence, I was willing to do that.” His mouth dips at the corners, his eyebrows living. “You did ask me to look after him.”

“Yes, but not to take him away from me.” Sherlock swallows. “He’s at Bart’s now?”

“Indeed. You don’t intend to confront him there?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock says sharply. “I know John better than you do.” He would hate that, the public spectacle of it, the inability to show how he really felt. Sherlock can imagine the expression on his face, that slightly emotionally-constipated look of frustration and anger and, hopefully, joy.

“I’m sure,” Mycroft concedes mildly. “I hope you know, Sherlock, that John has not fallen apart. He is a solid, strong man, and he has shown himself to be quite capable of leading a life without you in it. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed by his lack of fragility.”

Sherlock scoffs at him. “John Watson has never been fragile.”

***

The first time Sherlock sees John again, it is by accident.

There’s no reason he should be as surprised as he is by how beautiful John is. (He’s never thought to describe him that way; it’s never suited him before. It implied softness, vulnerability that never existed before.) He almost runs across the street, to meet him there, to touch him and breathe him in, because Mycroft has been telling him he’s alive and well, but Sherlock always has to see, always has to know for himself.

And, _oh_ , is John alive and _well_. He still carries himself like a soldier, but also like a pallbearer, and Sherlock wants so badly to lift that weight off of his shoulders. His hair is military-short again; he let it grow out a bit, while he was running about with Sherlock, but Sherlock finds it suits him.

He doesn’t limp. Sherlock counts it as a victory.

He watches him walk away, and he doesn’t go after him. His fingers twitch with the desire to reach for him, even at this distance, and only when someone, on his mobile and not paying attention, knocks Sherlock with his shoulder, does he stumble and turn away.

He has plans. He has to know John before he can meet him again.

***

Sherlock has always been surprised by how easily people are fooled by false noses and ears, when presented with someone in disguise.

He figures his false beard helps as well, though. John knows his mouth too well to not be tipped off by it; he’s spent too much time under it or watching it to not recognize it. He looks like an American fraternity boy, he decides distastefully, studying the short, blunt nose, large ears, close-cropped hair, and rough beard. It will do.

Mycroft informs him that John begins his shift at six o’clock in the evening. Sherlock marks it on his watch, and positions himself close to the hospital entrance at half-five, waiting. John surprises him by passing close beside him, crossing the street almost before he notices. Sherlock miscalculated, assuming that John would take a taxi. He must have come instead from the Tube.

No matter. Sherlock waits fifteen minutes, long enough to be sure John is seeing patients, and moves off into an alleyway. He produces a small switchblade, one he used to kill two members of Moriarty’s web in Moscow, and slices open the soft, pale skin on the underside of his forearm. It won’t threaten any veins, but it will certainly need stitches. He tears the edge of his t-shirt and wraps it around his arm, before making his way across the street to the hospital.

Apparently, freely-bleeding wounds have priority in A&E. Sherlock will remember that in the future; it could certainly prove useful. He does have a doctor at home, though. Perhaps if John ever needs to be stitched up.

“Hello, Mr. Griffin.” John walks with purpose, and he reads the name Sherlock gave off of his sheet as he moves into the room. “So you’ve got a bit of a nasty cut, I understand.”

Sherlock tries not to just stare at him. He lifts his arm, propped up with his other. “Yes. My wallet was stolen. When I tried to retrieve it, a knife came into the picture.”

John tsks, sitting and turning the chair toward the bed where Sherlock sits, smiling up into his face for the first time. “Luckily for you, stitches are my specialty.”

_I know._

“I’ll have you fixed in a flash.”

Sherlock has never been on the receiving end of John’s bedside manner. It’s surprisingly friendly, almost cheerful. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m not normally so bold, to confront of a mugger.”

John chuckles, sets to his task. “Most people aren’t, mate,” he assures him. “Still, if he has your wallet, I suppose an argument could be made for it.”

Sherlock tries not to beam at him, and allows himself to bask privately in John’s roundabout praise. “You look like you could win a scrap, if you needed to.”

“I could, and have,” John agrees, radiating that confidence he always has, the one that makes the hard edges beneath his soft face and thick jumpers harder to hide. “I was in the army.”

“Yes?”

“Mmm. But I never saw as much hand-to-hand fighting as I did when I got home.” His mouth twitches. “I had a friend who got me into all sorts of trouble.”

Sherlock’s heart pauses, processes, reboots. “What kind of troubles?” He winces slightly at the first prick of the needle entering his skin, the smooth slide of the thread behind it. He tries not to look. (He’s only ever been squeamish about his own body.)

“He sometimes consulted the police, about crimes they couldn’t solve. He was very clever, but not always self-preserving. I’m glad I was around most of the time, so he wouldn’t do something too terribly stupid.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John’s voice is light, but is dragged down by the heavy presence of the past tense. He wonders if he’s the only one so strongly affected by choices made in language; he wonders if people feel dread the same way he is now.

“What happened to him?” he asks gently.

John doesn’t answer until he’s clipped off the end of the thread and cleared his throat. “He died.” He pushes his chair away toward his table. “Well, you’re all patched up for now. You’ll have to return, in a few weeks, so I can take the stitches out. Try not to get into any more scraps with muggers in the meantime.”

Never once does he tell Sherlock to go to the police. For some reason, Sherlock approves.


	8. Chapter 8

John arrives home from the home from the hospital long after midnight. He was supposed to be through with his shift by eight, but a car crash near Trafalgar Square brought in eight patients, and they all needed immediate care. John stayed because it was his job, and because there was nothing else he could be doing that would matter as much.

Now, though, walking up the stairs to his flat is almost too much. He doubts he’ll make it to his bed. Collapsing on the couch sounds like a brilliant, and very welcome, prospect. He’s already planning it when he pushes his key into the lock – and finds it won’t turn.

He swallows. Why would the door be unlocked? He’s sure he locked it before he left. It’s been open for almost two days, if he didn’t lock it. He presses it open carefully, and his ears perk up at the sound of someone in the kitchen.

 _Probably our room_ , John notes. _What would any burglar want from the kitchen?_

He thinks about continuing up the stairs to his old room, where he still stores his gun (just in case Lestrade ever came round to do a “drugs bust” when Sherlock was alive. The last thing they needed was possession of an illegal firearm on top of it.). Instead, he very carefully slides his umbrella out of the stand by the door and closes the door behind him.

A voice speaks, and John’s heart leaps to his throat. No one answers though. He moves carefully toward the sound, steps firmly, fully into the light pouring out from the kitchen, and goes very still.

Sherlock searches the cabinet, muttering in outrage to himself about the lack of chemistry equipment and paraphernalia from his experimenting days. He spins on John suddenly, pressing his hands to his hips, his eyebrows drawn together.

“John, I know we’ve discussed this; you’re _not_ to touch my experiments. How could you clear them away without even consulting me? And if you _were_ going to bin them, why wouldn’t you write down the observations first? Honestly. Now I have to begin again completely, and you’ve stored none of my equipment where I need it.”

John stares at him, trying to think of how he could possibly respond to this. Sherlock - _Sherlock_ \- is standing in his kitchen, very much alive, and beautiful, and his hair is so short, and his cheekbones are so sharp, and he is _so thin_ , and he’s sure Mrs. Hudson will take care of that right off, and he’s looking at John like he’s waiting for him to say something and – oh, that’s right.

“It’s not my fault your experiments went off,” he snaps back, leaning the umbrella against the door frame. “Next time you decide to disappear for three years, you could leave instructions for them. I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for.”

“ _Observe_ , John! Have you learned nothing?” Sherlock scolds. “All details are important!”

John steps slowly toward him, afraid that if he moves too quickly, this mirage will disappear. When he’s close enough, he reaches out, curls his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt and uses it to reel himself in the rest of the way. _Oh, god._ He presses his temple to Sherlock’s jaw for a long moment, then lifts his head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock smiles, straightens the collar of John’s shirt. “No one has ever told you before that you look good in blue, have they? You should wear it all the time. Also, I hope this position at the hospital won’t be too time-consuming. I need you to be available.”

“Oy, I don’t exist to be at your disposal.”

“Don’t you though?”

John can only smile.

 **Fin**.  



End file.
